


Doyle & Bodie - Touched Silver

by Jaicen5



Category: The Professionals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-25
Updated: 2012-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-02 11:57:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/368739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaicen5/pseuds/Jaicen5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes there are other getaway vehicles besides cars...<br/>This short story was written for a challenge</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doyle & Bodie - Touched Silver

**Touched Silver**

_I do not own these characters nor claim any right to do so  
This fanfic is purely for entertainment purposes only_

 

The pain is dreadful.

White hot agony spreads in fiery circles across my right side and I press my hand, bloody and sticky, firmly against the wound. The shock is wearing off slightly now and I can more or less think again. It’s cold; I can feel the chill against my naked back and shoulders, an odd contrast to the fire in my side, and my breath steams with each panting exhalation. Stifling a moan, I grit my teeth to prevent sound escaping but he hears. Or, more likely, he knows.

Muffled footsteps, the whispery shuffling of old dirty straw and Doyle is suddenly beside me, crouching down, moving my hand away with firm fingers. His skin is covered in goosebumps, a faint quiver assaulting his lean frame, although I’m not sure whether the cold is the cause, or the aftershock of his own abuse.

“Easy sunshine.”

I can see his eyes, gleaming silver in the moonlight through the high barred window, his face a pale blue in the same glow, his bare chest a study of illumination and shadow. Gentle hands examine flesh torn by a 9mm bullet. I watch him hazily, see his tongue flick out to touch at his swollen bottom lip. Full lips, Doyle has. Odd for a bloke. I’d once heard one of the typing girls declare they were the most kissable lips she’d ever seen. Needled Doyle for days about it, I did. But he always worries at them when he’s thinking and once the teeth replace his tongue, savaging that bottom lip, I know he’s thinking pretty hard. It’s not going well I suspect, judging by the desperation he can’t quite hide. But then Doyle has a giveaway face. At least to me.

I try to suppress the urge to cough, knowing it will tear across my gut, hammer at the open wound, but remnants of the thick orange smoke is still tickling my throat. The stun gas was as effective as the last time it was used on us. A couple of grenades thrown in the car and it was lights out, waking up, coughing and hung over, minutes, hours, days later, in some sort of old stable, as evidenced by the lingering smell of horses, stripped of our jackets, holsters and weapons. Oh they’d been good, staging an accident on the remote road, catching us as soon as we pulled up. Real pros.

They want the location of the safehouse where Hans Schneider is being held. A group of German terrorists, armed and ruthless. They’d known we were on our way there, how I’ve no idea, but they’d known and they’d intercepted us. Two of them had dressed in our leather jackets, the silver Capri outside. Close up it was laughable, nothing like us, but on a dark night, arriving at the expected time in the correct car, wearing our clothing, the mistake could be made - them for us.

“You will tell us eventually.”

They’d gone for Doyle with rough hands and a riding crop, Doyle powerless to defend himself, me powerless to stop it, retribution I suspect, for giving them lip. Never knows when to keep his mouth shut.. He was twisted around, strung up, T-shirt ripped open, the pale gold of his back exposed, muscles taut with the strain of arms raised too high. The first crack jerked that slender body, the back arching, head thrown back and a soft grunt escaped through teeth clenched tightly together.

“Where is it?”

My gut tightened, but Doyle didn’t breathe a word, just pressed his forehead into the grey bleached wood of the old horse stall and kept his eyes closed. He’s a stubborn bugger is Doyle. They say I’m the stubborn one, but I’m not a touch on Doyle when he gets going. And if he thinks he’s doing something right, nothing on earth will stop him. The crop cracked again, a new red welt overscoring the first, rising up like a burn.

“Where is it?”

Blood welled on lips caught fiercely between teeth as he rode the next four strokes before abruptly sagging against his bonds, sweating and shaking.

“Your last chance, where is it?”

Silence. And I wondered agonisingly whether Doyle was actually still conscious, hanging by his wrists, eyes closed, face ashen. The German had then raised his gun.

The shot was loud in the old stone building, echoing up to the shingled roof. Doyle jerked, as though he’d been lashed again and for a horrified minute, I’d thought the bastard had shot him. But Doyle’s wide eyes were fixed on me and a flaring pain exploded in my side. I looked down, startled to see a spreading red stain soaking into my shirt.

“Next will be the kneecap. Where is it?”

And Doyle, who two minutes before would have stubbornly held his tongue until the skin was hanging off his bones, had blurted out, “The old Straton Barracks, in Glen Mhor.”

“That is better. Secure them.”

It isn’t a bad injury all said and done, the bullet hasn’t hit any major organs on the way through and in normal circumstances I’d be patched up and convalescing at home in no time.

Preferably with the luscious Cindy to do all the work in bed, while I minded my injury.

But this isn’t normal circumstances. We’ve been locked, half naked in some sort of old feed room, or tack room, or something, seemingly in the middle of nowhere - judging by the lack of response to the gun firing - with an armed guard on the door, and the only patch to hand, is Doyle’s wadded up Tshirt, pressed against my side and kept in place with my belt. No, I won’t die from the wound itself, but loss of blood is another thing entirely. We both know it.

Doyle makes a face and finishes tearing my own shirt into a serviceable padding. It had been a favourite. Now it’s Italian designed bandages. I grimace as he places it over his own ruined and soaked garment, restraps the belt firmly. The eerily silver eyes lift to my face and I can see he’s come to a decision. “We’re going to have to chance it.”

“It’s a long shot mate,” I whisper. “He may not fall for it.”

“There’s no choice,” Doyle hisses furiously. “Not if we’re going to get out of here.”

He’s right of course. He always is. Mind you he always knows he is and tells me so often enough. Too smart for his own good sometimes, is Doyle. Take tonight for example. Giving a fully functional army barracks as the safehouse address, although how he’d managed to even think to double cross them while suffering the after affects of the stun grenades - not to mention the ten or so stripes across his back - I’ll never know. I daresay he hadn’t thought they’d leave a guard on us, though. And when our doubles come back empty handed, we’re as good as dead. He’s right and there is no choice, but the thought of moving just now makes me feel quite faint. I nod at him anyway, readying myself, tensing up against the pain in my side.

Doyle rises, graceful as a cat and goes to stand beside the door. It’s a long shot, but it’s the only shot.

“Open up.” His voice is shockingly loud, after our whispering. “My partner…something’s wrong. Open up.”

Nothing. Doyle stands at the door, pounding with his fist, his back pale blue in the moonlight, the stripes from the crop ominously dark, although it doesn’t look like broken skin. I’d wanted to check, but he’d brushed me aside, intent on stopping my own haemorrhage.

“He’s dying and he’s no good to you dead.”

Still nothing. Well it had been a long shot but knowing Doyle he won’t give up and he doesn’t. With a low voiced growl, he lifts his foot. The door trembles under his kick, but holds. I roll my eyes in resignation, well acquainted with Doyle’s unpredictable outbursts of temper and he is abruptly furious, kicking again and again at the door using the full force of legs a hell of lot stronger than they look. But then that’s Doyle all over isn’t it? Deceptive. Look at him now for example. Not giving up, not even if he gets a bullet for his trouble.

There is suddenly a loud crack of timber giving way and the guard is there, yelling for him to stop. But an angry Doyle needs handling very carefully, and the German abductor wouldn’t have a clue.

“Open the door,” Doyle yells, “Or I swear I’ll kick it down, he needs a doctor.”

“Stand back. You stand back away from the door on the far side so I can see you.”

Doyle does as he’s told, standing loose limbed, light on his feet on the other side of the room and I can see his chest rising and falling with his breath, his eyes narrowed and dark now, waiting. I recognise his stance, seen it countless times in our working lives. He’s readied himself to leap at the terrorist, risk the gun and he’s quick, I’ll give him that, but not that quick, and he’s on his own. The only advantage I’ve ever had over my partner is my weight, and the power behind it. And both are now useless.

I play dead, not that I need to act much, sprawled by the side of the door, hoping to god the bastard doesn’t decide to shoot the stubborn bugger where he stands. It opens cautiously and the gun appears. The terrorist sees Doyle on the other side of the room, legs braced slightly apart and sees me lying apparently dead in the filthy straw and goes to step past me. I erupt up off the floor like a striking snake, the pain flaring into white hot spots of agony with my ascent. I’d aimed for his gun hand, but only got as far as his knees, my actions feeble and lacking strength. It is enough, however, to topple him off balance and then Doyle is there, vicious and mean, all that street smart scrappy fighting he’s so good at unleashed with his temper. The gun discharges and I hear the whine of a bullet scream past my ear, but then I am only concerned with my own well being as the room spins dangerously and my limbs go horribly weak. I subside panting, trying to keep conscious but Doyle has the upper hand and the guard is out cold.

He comes immediately to my side and his eyes are silver again, the moon reflecting the concern in their depths.

”I’m all right,” I say waving him away. “Go find a way out of here.”

He checks my side first, and his face is grim, knowing I am lying. But he hands me the gun and quickly disappears. I keep my wavering vision on the unconscious German and wonder where the hell we are. And whether anyone in that military base would be bright enough to recognise stolen ID’s and save us the worry of them returning. Doyle’s return jerks me back to awareness and he crouches down to me. “Time to go.”

“Where? How?”

He doesn’t answer, just concentrates on getting me to my feet. I fling one arm across his shoulders; his skin is freezing, except for the hot crisscross brands from the whip. He sucks in his breath as I inadvertently lean too hard on them and I angle my arm away. Then I’m standing, but the world isn’t. It’s tipping and tilting quite alarmingly. Doyle waits patiently until I’m steady enough and then, keeping my arm around his shoulders knowing I desperately need the help, starts us both in the direction of the door.

The moon casts her blue glow on the world outside and I stop, looking around. I can see fences, but not much else. No vehicle, no lights, no nothing. “Where the hell are we?”

Doyle urges me on, around the corner of the structure. “I dunno, but look over there.” He points off in the distance and I can see the bright, man made glow of a town.

“How do we get there?” I ask caustically, heart sinking at the distance. Not on foot anyway. “The 7.15 bus?”

A loud snort behind me nearly makes me jump out of my skin. Turning I see a dark shape at the fence, a head dips, large eyes shining in lunar light. A horse. It’s large, black I think and it’s regarding us curiously. Doyle is looking speculatively at the animal and I can read his thoughts as clearly as ever. “Oh, no.”

“All there is mate,” he says and pats my arm reassuringly. “You’ll be right, can’t stay here and we’ve got to let Cowley know about our doubles.”

It’s alright for him, he’s a good rider. I’ve seen him on a few occasions and often wondered where he - a city kid born and bred – had learned.

He leaves me leaning against the side of the stable and goes off to find some tack. I see that the building is on its own, surrounded by fenced paddocks. Some sort of Pony club meeting place maybe, popular on weekends but deathly silent and dark at night. Our abductors had done their homework. Doyle is suddenly back, creeping noiselessly around the side of the building, gun in his right fist, a leather bridle and a coil of rope in his left.

“There’s no saddle, I could only find this and that’s because it’s had it,” he says, displaying the bridle and reins. “They must take all the equipment away with them. It’s bareback, mate.”

Bareback? Now wait a minute. Horses aren’t my scene to begin with. I can ride one, at a pinch, but nothing like my partner, who seems to have a natural affinity with the animals, but bareback?

Doyle is approaching the horse, clicking lightly under his tongue. The horse’s ears tilt forward, interested and Doyle has the bit between the large teeth, the leather up and over the head, tightening straps and adjusting the reins in no time. He walks the horse along the fence until he finds a gate and then guides him back to me.

“Come on Bodie,” he urges and wearily I obey him, placing my foot into his cupped hands to be boosted up onto the slippery back. The horse shies sideways and Doyle calms it with quiet endearments. Collecting the reins he begins to lead us in the direction of the neon lights. I cling to the mane, in too much pain to protest, each step jolting through my side like taloned claws. Hazily I watch Doyle, striding with that confident walk he has, clad only in jeans and trainers, the moon gilding the stripes on his back like war paint on an Indian brave.

Having no idea where we are, I have no idea when to expect the doubles to return and I glance dubiously at the narrow road leading from the stable. Doyle seems to be having the same thoughts.

“We can go cross country,” he says, looking up at me uncertainly, judging my condition.

I know what he’s asking. The better option is to leave me behind and go get help himself, but I know Doyle. He’s lost a partner once. He won’t do it again. We’ll be going together, or not at all. “Then you’d better get up here and put some distance between us and here. Before I pass out.”

I lean back on the horse to give him room and Doyle uses the fence to climb up, carefully settling himself in front of me, gathering up the reins.

“All right?” he asks.

“Yeah, just go easy Tonto.”

He laughs and clicks to the horse. I rest my hands lightly on his waist, trying not to touch the welts on his back. His skin is cold, the denim jeans rough under my fingers. My thighs are tucked beside his, the warmth of the horse immeasurably welcome against my legs. My head is still aching from the gas and I’m feeling woozy from loss of blood. I begin to drift with the movement of the horse, the night is darker through the trees, quiet, the distant rumble of traffic, a plane flying overhead. It all feels muffled, far away. The swaying is more pronounced, Doyle’s thighs flexing and shifting against mine, salt against my face, hot and cold with Doyle’s subtle fragrance.

”Bodie!”

I drag my eyes open. And feel an arm like an iron band awkwardly around my back, fingers digging in to bare skin, holding me in place. I am sliding and I jerk upright, provoking a sharp hiss from Doyle as I straighten up off his back, where I’d been boneless against his bruises and welts. He arches his spine against the pain, swings a leg across the withers and slides from the horse, just in time to half catch me as I topple off. “Easy mate.”

I’m on the cold ground before I know it, shivering. I can’t stop, my teeth chattering so loudly I can hear them. So can Doyle. He’s loosening the belt, checking the injury. My trousers are soaked and I can feel clammy wetness touching hip and thigh. Doyle swears as he surveys the mess, there is nothing to staunch it. He swears again as he presses his hands against my side, over our ruined shirts in an attempt to slow the bleeding. I look up towards the moon, hanging apologetically in the canopy of elm and oak. It’s very bright, and growing brighter by the minute.

The bed isn’t warm enough. I can feel a chill here and there, shoulders, back and I try to wake enough to reach for the blanket. Cindy is beside me, snuffling at my hair, my ear and I smile, knowing what she wants. But I can’t wake up enough to reach for her and a crackling noise diverts my attention. A flickering is insistent behind my eyelids and I finally open my eyes, tearing myself away from my dream. I’m staring into a small fire, the comforting dance of flames licking along wood, glowing pure blue in its heart. The heat is welcome against my chest and face. Another gentle tug of my hair and I lift my head to see the horse, velvet lips inquisitively investigating my ear. A poor substitute for the lovely Cindy. I raise a feeble hand to push it away. Large eyes admonish me reproachfully, but my awakening has stirred the solid form against my back.

Doyle sits up and leans over, his eyes dark now, shadowed by the canopy above us. His movement dislodges the pocket of heat between us and a cold draught swirls unpleasantly, stroking my bare skin. I feel very lethargic, watching dozily as he gets up and gently pushes the horse back, tending the fire. The glow of the flames gilds his skin; the rising heat lifts his curls from his neck. He is intent on feeding sticks into the heart of the blaze and I stare at the mesmerising flames. Dangerous that. Lighting a fire would be a like a beacon for anyone searching for us. Doyle knows it.

“You’re losing consciousness on and off,” Doyle says and he’s worrying at that lip again, swollen from the blows he received. “You’ve lost too much blood Bodie, going into shock. I had no other way to warm you.”

The disappearing heat at my back now makes sense. He’d placed me between himself and the fire, keeping me warm. And alive. The horse is still there, I can see its outline in the moon, eyes dark and wise and it drops its velvet nose to me again. I smile at it.

“I can’t keep you on the horse and ride at the same time.”

I begin to tell him to go on without me, but he’s straightening up again, walking over to help me up. The world lurches, this isn’t a good idea. But he’s stubbornly insistent, bending to cup his hands. I humour him, allow myself to be boosted up onto the broad back. The horse snorts briefly and tosses his head. I cling to the mane, my head whirling, the cold air shocking against fire heated skin.

Next minute I feel a loop around my right wrist, but I’m too far gone to protest. Another tugs gently at my left, and my vision darkens. The rocking motion resumes. I surface every so often from dark dreams, my face muffled in long wiry mane, my chest warm against the solid, dependable muscle of my transport. Maybe this horse riding thing isn’t such a bad idea. I begin to see why Doyle likes it. The moon is back in full light again, everything is touched silver. I smell blood and horse in equal measure, but I don’t want to move, I can’t anyway, my hands seem tied. My eyelids feel like great weights are on them, but I prise them open, just enough to see him walking in front of me, leading the horse, like some ancient warrior on a quest and I’m reminded of a poem I once read. _What ghosts walk these hallowed hills, Where once the cry of battle reigned?_ The breeze is teasing his hair, the moon emphasising the flex of long back muscles and highlighting the oily shine of the weapon in his capable right fist. And I know I’m safe.

Bright lights and murmuring voices pervade my subconscious, at the exact moment I was about to pervade the luscious Cindy and she dissolves away. Bloody lousy rotten timing. I don’t want to wake up, but I can no longer feel the soothing rocking of the horse, the cool darkness has gone and the pain in my side is reduced to a mere throb. I listen instead, hearing the sharp street smart tones of my partner, followed by the stern Scottish vocals of George Cowley. Doyle is arguing with the boss, no surprise there, Doyle doesn’t back down from anything, not German terrorists, not the head of CI5, not the Queen I suspect, if she disagreed with him. But by god he picks his moments.

“Knock it off Doyle,” I mumble and the arguing stops immediately.

“You going to sleep all day?”

“Yes.”

Vaguely, I remember the damage done to his back and prise my eyes open to make sure he’s all right. He’s wearing clean jeans and a denim shirt and looks comfortable enough. Greenish blue eyes gaze down at me and I remember them silver in moonlight, fierce as he inspected my wound. There are bright lights haloing his curls, like some sort of angelic aura. I recognise my surroundings, ought to as I’ve been in them enough. Hospital.

He did it, got me to safety. Him and that beautiful horse. Of course I never doubted him. Stubborn just doesn’t begin to describe my partner. I want to ask about the terrorists but I’m just too tired.

“Is there anything we can get you?” Cowley asks gruffly.

“Yeah.” My eyes slam shut again, but I manage to mumble, “Cindy. Number’s 5523 4537.”

***

 

For Pony

 

**Jaicen5** 2011  
As usual I thank my collaborators  
pmgms  
CI5Mates

Without them, and our round circle discussions, writing wouldn’t be as much fun  



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